


Let Our Candle Always Burn

by LiraelClayr007



Series: Time is But a Paper Moon [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 00:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19414261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: The butterflies in his stomach seem to have invited friends.“Yes. Lovely,” Aziraphale says again. Convincing himself.Because Crowley is right: they are their own side now. And maybe, just maybe, being with Crowley isn’t actually giving in to temptation. Maybe being with Crowley is…Going home.





	Let Our Candle Always Burn

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be the third part of a trilogy, but I (hopefully!) wrote them carefully enough that they can each stand on their own.

It’s been a long week.

Being an angel, Aziraphale measures time differently than a mortal creature. Years pass in no time at all, even decades seem to fly at times. But this past week somehow felt like a thousand years. Losing the antichrist, racing to Tadfield, facing off against the Four Horsemen _and_ Heaven and Hell _and then_ Satan himself…

Not to mention going to Hell in Crowley’s skin. The thought of Beelzebub and Dagon, the thought of Crowley going back there, time after time, for millennia--it makes Aziraphale want to weep.

But things are back to nearly normal now. Crowley’s Bentley is like new again, and still playing almost nothing but Queen. The bookshop is as mazelike and dusty as ever, if with some interesting new additions, book-wise. And dining at the Ritz, clinking champagne glasses with Crowley…

Well. _Nearly_ normal.

Because he doesn’t normally get nervous flutters when they finish lunch.

“Give you a lift, angel?” Crowley’s voice is light, but there’s an undertone to the question Aziraphale doesn’t quite understand..

He hesitates, then says, “I’m...I’m not sure I’m ready to be alone just yet.”

Is he imagining things, or does Crowley relax a bit, ever so slightly, at this?

“Come up for a drink then.”

More nervous flutters.

But he’s been to Crowley’s flat before. He stayed there last night, for Heaven’s sake. So why the nerves now?

_Because now you’re free. Both of you. No more fretting over what’s right, no more looking over your shoulders for nosy angels or demons._

Battling himself, in his mind, Aziraphale responds, _Yes, but does that make a difference?_

And then he realizes Crowley is staring at him, expectantly, waiting not-so-patiently.

“Oh! Sorry, lost in my head for a moment. A drink sounds lovely, Crowley.” He smooths invisible wrinkles from his jacket so his hands have something to do, then stops himself fixing his bow tie. It won’t do to fidget.

There’s nothing at all to be nervous about. It’s just a drink with his best friend. Something he’s done countless times over the millennia.

And yet.

The butterflies in his stomach seem to have invited friends.

“Yes. Lovely,” Aziraphale says again. Convincing himself.

Because Crowley is right: they are their own side now. And maybe, just maybe, being with Crowley isn’t actually giving in to temptation. Maybe being with Crowley is…

Going home.

The thought circles in his mind as they drive to Crowley’s flat, keeping company with a myriad of memories from the past six thousand years[1]. The way his heart beats faster in his chest when Crowley smiles. The joy that bubbles up inside him whenever they laugh together. The longing he feels whenever they are apart for too long.

The startling realization he had when Crowley saved his books, that night in the church. 

That particular memory never strays far from Aziraphale’s thoughts. The humiliation of being duped by those rancid humans, the amusement-tinged wonder at seeing Crowley hopping his way across consecrated ground to save him, the relief at not losing his human body, the despair at losing his books.

And then the overwhelming feeling of love, washing over him like a tidal wave.

He’s loved Crowley for years. Centuries, even. But it took a bag of books and “a little demonic miracle” for him to realize he was _in love_ with his best friend.

They park outside Crowley’s flat, the Bentley slipping into the parking spot with something rather close to angelic grace. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow but says nothing, he’s accustomed to Crowley doing impossible things.

Crowley is out of the car and sauntering up to the front door; Aziraphale hasn’t even opened his door yet. _Get yourself together,_ he scolds himself. _Nothing is going to happen. Not that I’m thinking about things happening. It’s just a drink._ ‘With the demon I’m hopelessly in love with’ is left unsaid. Unthought, even. He’ll never survive the evening if he even thinks it right now. Wordlessly he follows Crowley, a mix of anticipation and uncertainty roiling in his belly.

. + . + . + .

Aziraphale wanders through the flat, wine glass clutched a bit too tightly in his hand. The smell of Crowley nearly overwhelms him. He touches things as he walks--the corner of a coffee table, the smooth surface of a window, the cool green of a leaf[2], the tip of a stone wing on a ridiculous statue[3].

He’s walking through Crowley’s kitchen when the toe of his shoe sends something skittering across the black and white tile floor. He freezes mid step when he sees what it is: a tartan thermos. _The_ tartan thermos. And it sounds empty.

“Crowley?” His voice comes out in a raspy croak, stretched thin over strained vocal cords. He’s having a hard time pulling his mind under control; the only thing he can think is that Crowley is alive and in the next room but he could be gone. He could be _dead._ One single drop-- Nausea floods through him; the wineglass slips through his fingers, shatters on the floor. The splatter of wine, thick and red, looks like blood.

A minute later Crowley finds him there, still frozen in place, staring at the thermos now resting against the leg of the small kitchen table. “I thought I heard glass br…” His words, unfinished, hang in the air. After a breath he says, “Angel, what happened?”

“It’s empty.” Aziraphale’s voice is calm. Conversational.

Even in his own ears he can hear the wrongness.

“I told you not to open it, Crowley. I told you. Even one drop, and you’d be…” He can’t say the words aloud, but they bounce around inside his skull like boulders rolling down a mountainside. Lost. Gone.

Dead.

“Well I was defending myself, wasn’t I? And I wasn’t careless. It was the best way to deal with Hastur and Ligur. Though Ligur got it all, I probably should have saved some just in case. Ah well. I got away, and we saved the world, so it’s alright, isn’t--” He stops abruptly, moving to stand in front of Aziraphale, broken glass crunching under his boots. He takes off his sunglasses, and Aziraphale dimly registers the look in his eyes--concern? panic? alarm?--before he begins to speak.

“Angel. _Aziraphale._ ” Aziraphale’s eyes snap up from the thermos in time to see one of Crowley’s hands reach out to him then jerk back, the pained, almost horrified look on his face contrasting with the softness of his voice.

He starts again, and Aziraphale feels like their eyes are connected by invisible cords[4]. “Everything’s okay now, angel. It’s over.”

A shudder runs through Aziraphale. “Over? How can it be over? We’ve been tog--We’ve been friends since we stood on the garden wall, how can that just be _over_?” He can hear the hysteria ringing in his voice, but he can do nothing to stop it. The thought of losing Crowley _now_ , now that they are _safe_... 

The room tilts in his vision and he hears a thump. It takes him a moment to realize that the noise had been the sound of him hitting the floor, where he now sits slumped against the kitchen cabinets.

“Aziraphale!”

And then Crowley is there, kneeling in front of him, glass shards slicing into his knees. “You shouldn’t do that,” Aziraphale says absently. “You’ll bleed all over and ruin your trousers.” He looks down at his lap, then back up at Crowley. “I’ve got wine all over mine. It’ll never come out.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and miracles away the mess. “You daft angel. _The apocalypse_ is over. _Being hounded by heaven and hell_ is over. _Following orders_ is over. The rest of it--you and me--I think...I think that’s forever.”

_His eyes are so lovely_ , Aziraphale thinks. _He’s always hiding them, but they’re truly beautiful._

And then Crowley’s words hit home.

“Forever,” he echoes, and then again. “Forever.” The butterflies in his stomach finally sleep.

Crowley scrubs at the back of his neck. “I didn’t actually mean to say that bit. I mean, I do _mean_ it, but I wasn’t going to--”

His words devolve into a startled squeak and a groan of pleasure, muffled by Aziraphale’s lips pressed against his own.

The kiss lasts a moment or a lifetime. After a startled instant Crowley kisses back with abandon, and Aziraphale can’t help but think, _Ah. So this is what the poets go on about. I can see why._

“If you had waited much longer to kiss me I might have exploded.” Crowley’s words come out in a nearly desperate croak. “I doubt exploded demon is much fun to clean up.”

“You could have kissed me first.”

“Yes. Well. Couldn’t come off all desperate, could I?”

Crowley looks sheepish, but ruins the effect by catching Aziraphale’s gaze and winking.

Flapping a hand in exasperation, Aziraphale says, “Cheeky.” Crowley grins.

Aziraphale threads his fingers into Crowley’s hair, the silken red locks soft as feathers. “I liked it long.” He’s kissing Crowley’s temple now, and murmurs the words into his skin.

“You know me,” Crowley says, his own fingers finding their way to the soft curls at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. “I never settle.”

Aziraphale laughs softly and kisses the tip of Crowley’s nose. “You’ve been at my side for over six thousand years, Crowley. If that’s not settling, I don’t know what is.” He feels heat rise to Crowley’s cheeks. _I’ve got to find ways to do that more often,_ Aziraphale thinks, leaning back just enough to see the blush. _Breathtaking._

“You’re the exception,” Crowley mutters, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes..

“Of course,” Aziraphale answers, his voice serious but his eyes dancing with mirth.

And then he gives up and laughs again. He can’t help himself. After carrying around the self-imposed guilt of falling in love with a demon and then trying to save the world being stomped on by both heaven and hell, he suddenly knows.

This, this right here, is what joy truly feels like.

. + . + . + .

1Give or take a decade.[return to text]

2It must be his currently overactive imagination, but he’s sure he hears the plant _sigh_ at his touch.[return to text]

3The statue _does not_ make him blush. Not a bit.[return to text]

4Cords impossible to break. Titanium cords. Titanium cords laced with diamond.[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a bit sad that this little trilogy is over...
> 
> Like the first two parts, the title comes from Queen's "Teo Torriatte (Let Us Cling Together)"...if you haven't heard it before, you should! ;)


End file.
